


The Empty Warehouse

by bearfeathers



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Sherlock (TV), The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: Avengerlock, Gen, Greg and Phil aren't having any of your shit today thank you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:09:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/pseuds/bearfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m going to go ahead and blame you for this,” Lestrade said casually, blinking as something warm dribbled from his temple to his eye.</p><p>“Safe bet,” Coulson answered evenly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Empty Warehouse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geniusbee](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=geniusbee).



> Well, I hope this turned out all right. It started as a fic for Coulson and Lestrade to be badass in and turned into my own version of "The Empty House." Hope it's an okay read! :D

When Lestrade came to, it was to a pounding headache, double vision, and the sensation of his arms being tied behind his back. He wiggled experimentally and found that, yes, the thick ropes wound around his torso were as secure as he thought they might be. He was propped up against something, not a wall or a post or a chair, but something warm. Something living.

Something trying to untie the ropes around his wrists.

He twisted slightly, trying to get a good look and the whole room tilted. Just as he squeezed his eyes shut, he heard his unlucky counterpart speak.

“You might want to avoid moving your head too much.”

Ah. So that’s how it was.

“Phil,” he greeted.

“Greg,” the man replied.

“Pleasure to see you again.”

“Perhaps if it were under better circumstances—“

“Yeah, I see what you mean. Well, take time where you can get it, eh?”

The light joke had sounded forced, even for him. Still, if he had to be trapped in—a warehouse, really?—with someone, then it might as well be Phil Coulson. Though it wasn’t often they were able to meet in person, their transatlantic camaraderie had been going nearly twenty years strong. They’d met when they were both still rather young and fresh-faced; Lestrade had been on the force for a few years and Coulson had just recently been acquired from the military by the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. And fuck all if that wasn’t a mouthful. Why it had taken them this long to shorten it to the S.H.I.E.L.D. acronym was beyond him. In any case, after having run into each other quite by mistake—in what they now simply referred to as The Camden Incident—they’d kept in touch; via letters at first, then email when it became more mainstream, with the occasional phone call and the more occasional face-to-face meeting.

Coulson’s work was shady at times and Lestrade knew better than to ask, having received apologetic looks as excuses of classification far too often. But they worked in similar fields, with similar determination to do something right, to make a difference. Given the situation they found themselves in now, however…

“I’m going to go ahead and blame you for this,” Lestrade said casually, blinking as something warm dribbled from his temple to his eye.

“Safe bet,” Coulson answered evenly. “I did ask you to investigate the Hammer rumors, after all.”

“Right, right,” Lestrade murmured, closing his eyes.

It was all coming back to him now. He’d received a phone call from Coulson a week prior. It turned out that Justin Hammer, a criminal under lock and key at S.H.I.E.L.D. had escaped, aided by a mysterious blonde man. Coulson had given him what they had been able to gather about the man: Major Sebastian Moran, formerly of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces, honorably discharged five years prior following a near-fatal gunshot wound to the head. Information after that was scant. For all intents and purposes, Moran had fallen off the face of the earth. And considering S.H.I.E.L.D.’s habit of knowing everything and then some, that was saying something. They’d been dropped a tip by an informant—who floated to the surface of the Thames three days later with a bullet in his skull—that Hammer and Moran had been spotted in London. So Coulson called in a favor and asked Lestrade to investigate the matter until he could make it over. He’d agreed.

Then things had gone to hell.

Lestrade received a text from a man who had been dead for almost a year, giving him the location of Hammer and Moran, and requesting his presence for an arrest. He’d gone to Mycroft then, demanding what he thought he was pulling, but the elder Holmes brother had only looked at the received message, gone a rather interesting shade of white, and informed him that it was authentic. Mycroft had advised him to do as it said. He’d had reservations—nearly a million of them, especially since the text had asked him to go alone—but in the end, he’d gone. In the dead of night, he’d crept silently through the underbrush towards the location he’d been given. That’s when he’d been ambushed. Lestrade was no pushover, but in the brief, brutal struggle that followed, he’d been no match for the ten men sent to take him down.

Obviously, Coulson had met a similar fate.

“How many did they send after you?” he asked.

“A modest twenty,” Coulson replied dismissively. “I need you to stay still so I can untie your hands.”

“’Modest twenty’ he says,” Lestrade snorted. “Well, at least we found Hammer and Moran.”

“Always the silver lining with you, isn’t it, Greg?”

“I thought we agreed no more hair jokes.”

“You’re bringing it up, not me. I was talking about clouds.”

“Let’s talk about something else. How’s your shoulder?”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“Not good then. Fine. Find anything out about where we are?”

“Very little,” Coulson replied. “It’s a warehouse, it’s empty, and there are no outside light sources, no sounds, and no smells to help identify where we are.”

“Brilliant. Had any visitors?”

“Moran came by briefly. He didn’t do much besides circle us and leer. Not the kind of man who’s big on words, it seems.”

“Hammer won’t show up by himself, I’m betting. You said he’s a smooth talker, right?” Lestrade asked.

“Right. So, good cop/bad cop,” Coulson replied. “Your wrists are untied.”

“With Moran as the bad cop. Well, he’s probably the only one who can provide any real physical obstacle, what with his military background,” Lestrade said, getting to work on the ropes around Coulson’s wrists. His vision was clearing up and though his head still ached, consciousness seemed to be working in his favor for the moment. “If we’re timely about it, we might avoid attracting the attention of whatever help they’ve hired.”

Coulson hummed in agreement. “If. In that case, you take Hammer and I’ll take Moran. That head injury had you down for the count for a while.”

“Regardless, Hammer should fold like lawn chair,” Lestrade answered. “Should be enough time to gang up on Moran.”

“I agree. I’ve got an idea as far as engaging them in combat that should provide just the time we need to get this done. Thanks,” Coulson said as he felt the ropes fall away from his wrists. “I’m going to try to work on the ropes around your arms. Lie on your side and scoot down so I can reach them.”

With a little bit of coordination, the two of them tipped onto their sides, Lestrade moving down until he felt Coulson tugging on his bonds, telling him to stop. With the back of his head pressed between the agent’s shoulder blades, he listened to the man’s devised plan of attack. It wasn’t a half-bad idea, but their timing would need to be absolutely perfect. He breathed a sigh of relief when the tight ropes gave way and hurried to shimmy out of their hold. Sitting up, he tossed them to the side and turned ‘round to kneel and help the other man up, blinking quickly to chase the spots from his vision.

“Christ, Phil,” Lestrade grumbled, eyeing the deep gash that cut straight through the arm of the other man’s suit as he carefully sat him up.

“It looks worse than it is. You should see your face,” Coulson responded.

Lestrade began untying him. “It doesn’t hurt that bad.”

“Really? Because it’s killing m—“

“ _No._ I am not getting into a terrible pun war with you,” Lestrade admonished, laughing regardless.

“Sore sport.”

“Excuse me, I think that’s your title.”

Phil shook his head, slipping the coil of ropes up and over his head, turning to get a good look at his old friend. Lestrade grinned that boyish grin he was famous for. It had really been about four years, hadn’t it?

“When did you get so old?” Lestrade guffawed.

“Probably a few years after you did,” Coulson said pointedly.

“You’re such an arse.”

“So you’re saying I haven’t changed.”

“In so many words.”

“Neither have you, it seems. Well, your hair might have gotten greyer.”

“You’re in no position to be cracking jokes about other people’s hair, Coulson,” Lestrade said, swatting him playfully at the elbow. “Now, let’s get into position. No idea when our hosts will arrive, right?”

“Right. Remember. Wait until I’ve engaged Moran. I’ll give you the signal,” Coulson replied with a half-smile.

They looped the ropes just long enough to drape over their fronts and to circle back behind their arms. When they pressed back to back, the ropes were held in place, but if either moved away, they would fall away instantly, allowing them to move without being impeded by their presence. It looked convincing enough too, so long as they held position with their hands behind their backs. It was only about ten minutes before they heard a door open and shut, and Lestrade saw Hammer striding towards them with his arms held aloft, Moran skulking after him.

“Boys! Nice to see you awake. I trust you slept well?” Hammer said with a smile as he stopped in front of Lestrade.

“The accommodations were a little lacking, but the reception was nice,” Coulson said without bothering to turn his head to look over his shoulder at the man.

“Well we had to make sure you’d both accept our invitation, didn’t we?” Hammer said with a sickeningly sweet smile.

Lestrade watched Moran watch them. He was an impressive height, perhaps as tall as Sherlock, but where Sherlock was thin and wiry, Moran was lean and toned. His unshaved face and the dark circles beneath his eyes gave him a somewhat manic appearance. The piercing, green gaze certainly didn’t hurt either. His blonde hair was slightly mussed, parted at the side with a few stray strands falling across his forehead. A cigarette dangled from his lips haphazardly and his hands were shoved in the pockets of the brown leather jacket he wore. Long legs moved him slowly from Lestrade’s field of vision and he couldn’t help but feel he was being sized up by a large jungle cat. Hammer was still talking, but Lestrade wasn’t paying very much attention to whatever he was saying. He’d already pegged the man as a blowhard which meant whatever Hammer had to say was going to go in one ear and out the other. He might have to put up with that sort of nonsense on the job, but he wasn’t on the job so Hammer could take all his honeyed words and shove them up his—

His train of thought was derailed when he suddenly felt Coulson reach for his hand. The agent pinched him, hard, signaling he had Moran lined up right where he wanted him. Lestrade inspected Hammer’s position and, finding him to be just close enough, pinched Coulson back. He felt the man extend his fingers against his open palm, counting down.

One finger.

Two fingers.

Three—

He felt Coulson lunge away from him as he himself kicked out his leg to swing under Hammer. The telltale crack of bone breaking preceded the undignified yelp from Hammer as he had his feet swept out from underneath him. He righted himself and surged forward, ignoring the way the room tilted, and hauled the man up by his expensive silk tie, throwing a punch that would leave him with some very sore knuckles, if not a broken hand, come the next day. Hammer went limp in his grasp and he took the opportunity to glance back at how Coulson was faring.

Moran seemed to have lost his rifle in the scuffle and had resorted to hand-to-hand. The former soldier might have had the upper hand if his vision weren’t obscured by blood and tears; somewhere in the scuffle, he’d received a rather nasty gash to the forehead which was steadily gushing blood, the broken nose bringing tears to his eyes unbidden. Coulson could hold his own for another minute while he tied up Hammer, but he needed to make quick work of it.

“Thank you very much for the hospitality, Mr. Hammer, but I believe we’ll be checking out early,” Lestrade said to the unconscious man, tying his hands behind him and looping the remaining length of rope as tightly around his torso as it would go.

He was just finishing tying the knot when he heard a pained gasp; one that didn’t come from Moran. When he looked up, he was greeted by the sight of the ex-soldier wrenching the agent’s left arm behind his back, his other hand around Coulson’s throat.

With red at the corners of his vision, Lestrade charged forward.

* * *

Calls of “Lestrade!”, “Greg!”, “Sir!”, “Agent Coulson!” and “Phil!” melded together in an intelligible jumble of words as the Hulk ripped a hole in the wall and the rescuers poured in through it.

The sight was not one they’d expected.

Hammer and Moran were bound in the center of the empty warehouse’s floor, back to back, with Lestrade and Coulson standing over them. Coulson was holding his left shoulder, his face pale and pinched, while Lestrade held him at arm’s length, attempting to inspect the damage to the agent even as blood steadily dripped down his own face. Well, that’s what they _were_ doing up until the Hulk tore a hole in the building.

Lestrade looked up at their rescue party, composed of Yarders, dead men and their flatmates, superhumans, gods, billionaires, spies, and assassins alike.

“Bloody well took you long enough, didn’t it!?” he scoffed.

The group stared.

“Yeah, well, Stark and Holmes were arguing over who was the prettiest supergenius at the ball,” Clint said with a snort.

“Shut up, Barton,” Tony groused.

“Do you suppose we could actually get down to arresting Mr. Hammer and Mr. Moran, please?” Coulson sighed.

The whole group flooded toward them and they seemed to get lost in the scuffle. Lestrade watched Coulson attempt to fend off a very worried Captain America and Thor while a very clearly unhappy Nick Fury shouted “No the hospital is _not_ motherfucking optional, Agent Coulson!” as Iron Man let loose an impressed whistle, bending to inspect the bound criminals while Agent Barton prodded them with the toe of his boot. And was it him or was that murder in the eyes of Agent Romanoff as she inspected their handiwork? Hopefully the Hulk wouldn’t crush either captive before they were taken into custody…

In any case, he suddenly found himself quite busy with his own people. John and Anderson were looking over his injuries, telling him to “Sit down, sit down you silly bastard, before you fall down!” while Dimmock hovered close by Agent Hill, the two of them instructing armed police and S.H.I.E.L.D. agents  as they took Moran and Hammer into custody. Sally barked orders into her radio, moving things right along in typically efficient Sally Donovan fashion.

And not two feet in front of him stood Sherlock Holmes. He thought he was well within his rights when he cut off Sherlock’s quiet “Lestrade…” with a square punch to the jaw. The consulting detective staggered and so did Lestrade, his vision greying at the edges. He felt wiry arms around him, keeping him upright.

“Bloody idiot,” he murmured into the familiar coat.

“So I’ve been told.”

He hadn’t heard that particular baritone in over a year. A strangled laugh escaped him, and Sherlock didn’t stop him when Lestrade circled his arms around him. He reached up with one hand, finding the curls at the nape of the taller man’s neck and tangling his fingers in them. If he let go, he was half-certain the detective would disappear again. He really needed to stop making friends with people who had a habit of coming back from the dead.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. “I miscalculated. I set a trap to catch myself a tiger. Neither of you were supposed to be involved to this degree.”

“’Sallright,” Lestrade mumbled. “We managed.”

“Yes, you certainly did,” Sherlock answered. “Onto the stretcher now, Lestrade.”

Lestrade pulled away, eyeing the stretcher that had appeared uncertainly.

“Go on, sir. Holmes will meet you there along with the rest of us,” Anderson assured him.

He’d definitely been hit harder in the head than he’d imagined, because if the understanding nod between Sherlock and Anderson wasn’t a sign of permanent brain damage, he didn’t know what was. John took pity on him as he helped him sit back on the stretcher.

“Yeah, I’m a bit unnerved by it all myself. I’m sure they’ll be at each other’s throats in no time and things will go back to normal,” John said. “And uh… Sherlock will be at the hospital, like Anderson said. Doesn’t have much of a choice considering I may have knocked a couple of his teeth loose when _I_  hit him.”

Lestrade couldn’t help but laugh at John’s grin.

“Mr. Holmes.”

Lestrade looked to the side, seeing Coulson getting similar treatment.

“Congratulations on your return to the land of the living,” Coulson said.

“And a belated congratulations to you as well, Agent Coulson,” Sherlock said, reaching out to shake the man’s hand.

Lestrade leaned back and closed his eyes. “…Phil, please tell me you didn’t know he was alive this whole time.”

“I’m sorry, Greg.”

He could hear the genuinely apologetic tone to the man’s voice and shook his head with a wry laugh.

“You’d better hope they put us in separate ambulances.”

“Going to strangle me with my IV?”

“You wish it would be that quick.”

In the end, despite bruised egos, hurt feelings and broken bones, they somehow came out on top. Coulson may have set back his physical therapy by about three months and Lestrade may have had a couple of bruised ribs and a severe concussion, but it had been well worth it. And the massive dinner party for all of them on Tony Stark’s bill? More than worth it.

Amidst the steady roar of conversation—Lestrade had no idea Asgardians ate so much—and the clink of silverware, Lestrade glanced sidelong at the man beside him.

“To old friends?”

Coulson chuckled, unheard, and clinked his glass against Lestrade’s with an easy grin.

“To old friends.”


End file.
